


keep turning

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angelic Grace, Angels, Angels are Dicks, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Crime Fighting, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grace Bondage, Implied/Referenced Angel Sex, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mirrors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Superheroes, Supervillains, Villains, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-10 10:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15947591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: It's pretty standard to have a little bit of superhero/supervillain romance on the side, sure. But sleeping with a sidekick? Fuck no. Out of the question. Absolutelynevergoing to happen.Maybe.





	1. sugar, spice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TriadicUniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriadicUniverse/gifts).



> "Superheroes! I want to see Jake as someone's plucky shorts-clad sidekick, and Eridan or John Crocker as the villain. Jake breaks into the villain's lair, and from there we have some options. Maybe Jake is captured, and the villain has his way. Maybe Jake is more competent at this hero-business than we give him credit for, and the ensuing fight turns into makeouts and/or wild sex against the nearest flat surface. Maybe Jake is the victor, and is startled when the villain enjoys being handcuffed a bit too much. They're all good options; I just want to have my favorite boys make out in silly, tight-fitting costumes."

You had to admit it, much as you didn't exactly want to—being a villain was really  _not_  your forte.

"It's traditional," your uncle had said, when you turned twenty. You'd managed to dodge the "assignment" for a solid two years, aided by your Da, but now the clan leader (god your life sounded like some kinda fuckin' anime) had put his foot down.

And okay. You had to admit this as well: you were pretty damn good at it. Robbing banks, dealing with illegal weaponry, art heists, jewel theft, etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum—you were  _good_  at what you did.

Sometimes you even enjoyed it, and part of you had a feeling you'd  _continue_  to enjoy it, as long as you didn't have to. Actually kill anyone. Really, you were the first Stormcode to go this long without a fatality, and all the cops and feds were wondering what your motive was now (the majority of those jackasses weren't aware that it was a  _very_  hereditary title), why you were trying to be "less evil".

Still. Still.

You  _knew_  it was coming on soon, knew that you didn't have much of a chance to make it through the entirety of your "term" before the absolute fucking worst happened.

 

At least.

You knew it until  _he_  came along.

 

* * *

 

People didn't often know it, but there were  _rules_  to this villainy thing, and rules had to be followed. At least, there were rules that came attached to the mantle of Stormcode, rules you had been trained not to question, rules that had been engraved so deep as to bite into your bones—

Anyway. There were rules.

One of the first ones you learned was  _don't kill the sidekick_.

To start with, it was probably the best and easiest way to kickstart some kind of  _insane_  fucking revenge plotline. Drove heroes nuts, every time. Not to mention, nothing ticked a city off more than a dead sidekick, which meant it was bad for business all around. Not to  _mention_ , sometimes those fucks had nasty ways of coming back from the dead with a  _little_  too much information for anyone's liking. Your great-grandda, one of the most feared Stormcodes to ever live, used to talk about villains he knew who got taken down that way. No one wanted to be the next.

That was a rule that every sensible villain held fast to, unless, for whatever absolutely ballistic reason, they  _wanted_  to kickstart some kind of revenge.

The  _reason_  behind it, the secondary one, that not many other villains knew, was that it was bad for long-term planning.

 

You'd had it explained to you by your Da. Grudgingly.

"You see," he'd said, looking like the words were lemon juice in his mouth, "heroes need villains to exist. But villains need heroes just as much—if people actually got the idea to put foot to pavement, if they decided to work  _together_  to hunt us down and take us out, like they do with ordinary criminals, then we'd be fuckin' toast. So long as they're leavin' it up to costumed idiots in capes, well."

You'd had to prompt him, when he didn't seem likely to continue. "Well?"

"It's safer for us," he finally said, and ice ran over your skin. You hadn't questioned him any further.

 

But you'd taken notice of your main opponent's first sidekick. And nothing had ever been the same.

 

* * *

 

As much as Stormcode was a secretly hereditary title, the Koriannon was loudly, deliberately, so.

Each previous Koriannon made great ceremony of "handing the title down to the next shining generation", and what's more, they did so  _often_ , with shorter terms "served", so that no one burnt out. You envied the bastards as much as you despised them.

Besides, it wasn't like they were all that much better than you. The current Koriannon was alright, as heroes went, but her predecessor had been a right bitch, and you hadn't blamed one of  _her_  sidekicks for making a break for it as soon as she could.

 

Of course.

Well.

You were pretty glad your main nemesis' current sidekick had decided to stick around, so far.

 

* * *

 

You hadn't really known what to make of him. Not when you first met. It was  _tradition_  for the current Koriannon's sidekick to choose their name, so long as they fit the "theme". (Spices. Fucking  _spices_. It was one of the most trite things you'd ever heard of, and honestly, you didn't entirely blame your predecessors for taking personal issue with everything about the whole damn operation.)

But the current one hadn't even chosen a  _name_  yet. He said he was deliberating, or some other shit, at every press conference they held. In the meantime, people had taken to calling him "Coriander", just to have a counterpart to the current Koriannon. 

Not that you paid any more attention to what he did than the average Stormcode would to a sidekick. Of their nemesis. Not that you were actually  _interested_  in what those, rather noticeable, muscles, could do.

Not that you  _cared_.

 

You didn't care, in fact, which was why you never spared him more than a passing glance when you were kicking Koriannon's ass, or letting her think she'd walked off with a victory—it was an old tactic, drop eighty to ninety percent of the loot on your way out the door and they wouldn't think to count the twenties twice, so happy everyone would be that  _most_  of it had been gotten back—not even when you had to handle him personally. You'd knock him through a wall, or catch him up in a miniature tornado, or bowl him over like the overeager puppy he was and go about your business.

Which was, of course, why you found yourself so  _surprised_  when he dropped a flirt or two with you into the conversation.

 

* * *

 

It's pretty standard to have a little bit of superhero/supervillain romance on the side, sure. But sleeping with a sidekick? Fuck no. Out of the question. Absolutely  _never_  going to happen. 

Maybe.

 

Well. You'd probably only be kicked out of the family, permanently, if you actually  _tried_  it.

 

Which gave you another thing to ignore, another thing to overlook, another thing to pretend didn't happen, ever, at all.

You were actually starting to get pretty good at that, the more you kept at it.

 

* * *

 

Cro, your predecessor, was no fucking help at all. He'd slept his way from one end of the hero roster to the other end of the villain lineup, and you were pretty damn sure that (and the cape code, second only in theory to the alleged "bro code" he kept referencing, second in actuality to the Storm Code you all had to obey) had given him such an easy go in the position.

"Just wait until he's got the mantle then get a leg over it, chief," he'd suggested, smirking, as he watched you squirm. You'd come over to talk about  _other_  things, not listen to your older brother give you crappy advice on your sex life. "Or you could try the whole hostage bit, but I can guarantee that ain't gonna end well unless you're the one who's tied up in ropes."

You'd kicked  _yourself_  out of the house, and promptly headed back to the current main hideout.

 

From there, you'd been put out enough to throw yourself into your work. After all, it wasn't like you'd expected visitors. Pretty much everyone you knew was out busy with their own jobs and tasks, and pretty much everyone you knew  _wasn't_  busy would know enough to respect  _your_ currently busy state.

A week and two more jobs passed. Then another week, and no jobs—you were  _allowed_  a break, your uncle had taken longer ones, and sometimes you needed to put them off the scent—and then another half week, and then—

 

* * *

 

The sound of crunching metal was the prelude to the beginning of the end, and never had there been a sweeter sound heard.


	2. and it burns so nice

Coriander—fuck, now  _you_  were using that stupid name too—came bursting through the double-thick steel door of your hideout, and you blinked at him. At the moment, you were working over something made out of fine, intricate details, and he'd interrupted right in the middle of the mind-numbing boredom that was starting to set in as you went over the tiny model for the umpteenth time.

Of course, the world around you played to a certain set of rules, and one such rule was that he had a little bit of rubble in his otherwise flawless hair, that you were in a state of dishabille (slightly so, of course, you had  _standards_ ), that when you stared up at him, dumbfounded, and blinked—he stared back at you, blinking, and just as dumbfounded.

"The fuck are you doing in my lair," you say, as a preamble, and he takes that as his cue to launch himself through the air.

It's only your quick action, hitting a button to take the miniature setup underground, that keeps him from destroying it completely. He  _does_  make a shambles of your worktable, as he slams you back into it, and you simply...raise an eyebrow, looking bored. The consternation in his expression more than makes up for it.

"I know you've been up to no good, Stormcode, and by golly, I'm here to make you account for your past absence and misdeeds!"

You can't fucking believe this kid. You can't fucking believe that you actually want to  _sleep_  with this kid. "I've been here. Busy. It's not like I'm constantly out there beating up cops, or sitting around twiddling my thumbs and making up evil schemes." Keeping the dip and sway of your accent out of your voice was hard, when you first started learning the trick, but now it's second nature.

From the frown he's wearing, you're starting to get the feeling that this is an  _unsanctioned_  visit. That his mentor might not know where he is, right about now.

 _Perfect_.

 

A flick of your gloved fingers has a twister rising up around his feet, binding his legs together and hauling him backwards. He yelps, and you let a stray bolt of lightning, no more painful than a static shock, fly from the gathering storm.

Once, when you were younger, you'd tried to make sense of your family line's powers, and completely given up on your sixteenth round of completely defying all known laws of physics. Back then, it had been a source of trepidation, fear, and discomfort, for you—your powers weren't definable. Now? Now, you're learning to kick back and  _enjoy_.

"So," you say, looking him over. The storm's carried him over to a high-backed chair, the sort you keep just for this purpose, and bound him there. Wrists to the chair's arms, ankles to the chair's legs, another band of wind wrapped around his midsection, and a pretty little one just at his throat. Never let it be said that you don't fully work your aesthetic. "Does your mentor know you're out on a school night, hm?"

"Koriannon is on backup," he lies, flawlessly. You're almost impressed. Previously, you'd assumed every Koriannon to be a little too lawful good to actually lie that well, but now you're kinda wondering if it's strictly reserved for the current title holder. "Whatever you have planned, fiendish villain, it will fail!"

You raise an eyebrow at him again, and the flush creeps up his cheeks and down his neck. Your voice drops down into something deep: think molten chocolate, to match the color of your eyes out of uniform. "Hm. Perhaps I'm coming at this from the wrong angle."

"How—how do you mean?"

Judging by that blush, and the way his ears have just starting burning, your new angle is exactly right. "Perhaps you came here solo for a reason. Perhaps you're not nearly so upset to be tied to that chair as you could be—or  _should_  be, even. Perhaps—" and you cross the intervening distance, tilt his chin up, and look into venom-green eyes, "perhaps this is what you wanted all along."

It's when you touch him, soft blue glove to perfectly tanned and toned skin, that the twinge of  _off_  runs up your spine. When he meets your eyes, it sinks its claws firmly into your bones, even without anything concrete to anchor it there.

"You're not wrong," he says, steady-slow, and you remember something you wish you'd remembered a lot earlier: this potential Koriannon is very,  _very_ , different from the rest. "But you're not right."

 

The mantle of Stormcode carries certain connotations, certain expectations, and certain basic types of power. Storms are a given, weather is a standard. Everyone expects those.

No one expects angels, no one expects holy fire and blessed light.

Not in the hands of a villain.

Not in the armory of a demon.

_(the heroes never tell you that sometimes villains are there to protect you from something far, far worse)_

_(because they don't know that, and because they'd be wrong if they did)_

_(it's not protection if it's something bound to your soul to keep it back from harming the world)_

_(it's not protection if they turn that power they were meant to guard and bind into a weapon for their own devices)_

You, in your whole life, have never touched that power.

From the light in his eyes, this boy has.

 

It burns straight through your storms, cuts through all the power you've brought to bear on him, and you barely get a shield up in time to save yourself. Even then, the burning light cuts around you, paints soot streaks across your floor—flares out behind him in the shape of brilliant wings.

Beautiful and deadly; everything a hero is, everything a hero is always meant to be.

You sink down to your knees, the supplicant in his proper place.

When he walks over to you—slowly, like the weight of heaven is more than he can properly bear—you assume he's come to gloat, to take your surrender, to call claim on what he assumes he's won.

You allow him time for absolutely none of these options.

 

Storms race through your blood and your surge upwards is one swift movement, only interrupted by the  _crack_  of your fist into the underside of his jaw.

He goes flying through the air, wings shifting through the air to catch him, leave him hanging there for a brief, glorious moment—then he dives towards you, ever the avenging angel, and you break into a sprint.

"I'd just like to say," you call over your shoulder, as you dart into a side hallway, searching for terrain that'll give you the best possible advantage, "that this  _wasn't_  in your godsdamn power profile, and I consider this  _incredibly_  poor sportsmanship!"

Coriander's far beyond witty banter. He flies after you, wings tucking in enough to get him gliding through the tight corridor. When it spits the two of you out in a much larger room, you can see the smirk on his face—he assumes you've miscalculated.

Instead, you smack a button on the wall, and your training ground comes to life.

 

The kid's expression when a giant spiked mace comes swinging through the air is fucking  _priceless_ , and you're very glad that you've got everything recorded. You're even more glad that it's enough to distract him from the nets dropping down.

They tangle up around his body, but you wince as his wings saw straight through hard metal wrapped in fiber. Shit.

Your next net, the one spilling straight out of your hands, made of coiled lightning and howling winds, does a little better. It slows his descent, holds him in place for scant seconds, before his burning wings shred straight through it, leaving static in the air and wind curling in pointless little spirals.

Then he slams into you, and you use his momentum to carry the both of you over into a roll, and punch him in the fucking face.

And, of course, he shakes it off. You could  _learn_  to hate the Koriannon and Co. healing factor, even more than you already have. Instead of seeming even a little bit phased, he hauls you in and rolls again, getting his legs hooked under yours and settling you into a pin. And, of course, you manage to shift enough to knee him in the fucking crotch.

 

It gets him off of you quick and gives you all of a second to be smug before you wrap a hand around one of his ankles and yank him down against the floor, face first. Hand to hand combat is something of a rarity for someone with your powers, but that doesn't mean you're not  _trained._ You roll backwards and leap off your hands, landing well on your feet and circling him, and when he gets back up to come at you again, he goes sailing over your hip.

You do  _not_  catch him when he lands, either.

 

* * *

 

Getting the wind knocked out of him is something of an improvement on his usual personality, in your opinion, and you plant your foot squarely in the middle of his chest, pressing down hard enough to hear him wheeze when he makes an attempt at getting back up again. "Alright. You said I was half right, and half wrong. Want to fill me in on what halves those were? If you do it  _quick_ , I might just consider dropping you off somewhere nasty instead of calling your mentor to come and pick you up like a scolded puppy dog."

It's then that you remember the look in his eyes, when you'd had him pinned down, for reasons quite evident to you both: he's giving you that same look, with those same bright green eyes.

 

Despite the fact that you are a genius, demonstrably so, it would not require  _any_  of your vast intellect to come to the conclusion you've just come to.

You are so fucking screwed.

 


	3. that you'd take it down twice

It's his turn to take you to a reversal from an all-too symbolic position. His hands wrap around your ankle and holy light runs up your skin, in chains and runes and things meant to bind. It does not burn you; he does not question why, assuming his own strength is enough to keep you safe. You can read it in his eyes, along with everything else: he does not want to hurt you, and if anything prevents your demise, he will assume it is his own willpower instead of the marks scorched into the depths of your soul.

There's only one route you can take if you want him to keep assuming that, if you want to keep him—and by proxy, every other hero in the godsdamn galaxy—completely unaware of what your line holds.

So you let him take you down, slam you into the ground, and you don't do anything but bare your teeth and curse. You're _quite_ good at it.

And for some reason, it's even more believable than you thought it would be.

At the moment, you'll try not to think about that. Not when his eyes are burning bright green again, not when he's following you to the ground, not when—

 

His mouth covers your own, and a large portion of your rational thought completely ceases to be. Dark laughter, muffled against your lips, sounds good on his, and you shudder under him. "So! Half right, as I said—I came here for _this_ ," he says, and punctuates the implication with an absolutely unmistakeable roll of his hips. He grinds down against you hard, exactly the way you like it, and it's all you can do not to whimper. Curse your acting skills. "And half wrong, because I did _not_ come here to let you run hogwild with my body!"

"Oh my fucking god, if you don't shut up, I'm not going to want to do anything with your body," you mutter, and damn him to the deepest hells, he _laughs_.

You'd never known that someone so good could sound so bad.

"Aren't you a pretty one," he coos, and another shudder runs down your spine, a movement that grinds you all up against him in ways you don't want to think about, in ways he very much seems to enjoy. "Now then, there's a couple of ways we can go about this—"

"Fuck you, and fuck your goddamn ways," you say, a breathless sort of snarl. Jake rolls his eyes, and then rolls you over to your front, and you immediately regret covering the walls of the training room in mirrors. Good practice, your left ass cheek. "If you don't—"

And that's as far as you get, before holy light pours into your mouth. Immediately, you can feel your body start to tremble against him, and his pleasure at your reaction—he probably thinks it's fear of him, instead of the memories of what _usually_ happens when something so holy has put you in such a position. "Good boy," he whispers, soft breath brushing over the curve of your ear, his lips moving down to caress your throat. "You'll be good for me, won't you? So, so pretty, all laid out like this."

You're too dizzy to respond, the wanting ache already spreading through your body. You can tell he notices that, even if he doesn't know where he's coming from, but Coriander's never been one to turn away a gift given. Instead of slowing down, he shoves your cape aside and shreds right through the back part of your uniform, leaving you in little more than your mask and your dignity, what with the rip he's made.

Thank fuck your underwear's still intact—for now, at least. Judging by the way he's nudging your thighs apart and reaching around to stroke over the half-arousal you've got going, and the fact that he didn't bother to strip off the ruins of your uniform or even cut neatly all the way through it, your boxers won't last that much longer. The only thing you can manage is _not_ rutting into his hand, and even that's enough of a struggle to make you grateful for the godsdamn restraints he'd left wrapped around you.

"Hm," he muses, sounding a little put out. "I was really hoping for more of an amusing reaction from you! A needy one, I mean, I can already feel what you're getting up to right down here—" and he has the fucking _gall_ to squeeze your length "—so I have to admit, that's a smidgin of a disappointment."

Your attempt at growling at him sends a rumbling through your chest that he seems to enjoy just as much as any of your other reactions, and he seems to decide against shredding right through your boxers after all. Instead, he yanks them down as much as h can manage, and you shiver at the feeling of cold air all across your bared skin, a sharp contrast to his overly warm hand on your partial hard-on. "Shh, shh," he murmurs, his mouth moving over the back of your neck. "I'll let you talk soon enough!"

You're not sure you believe him, but before you can even attempt a rebuttal, you can feel something slick pressing up against your entrance.

Trying to twist away doesn't work; the chains bind themselves tighter, and you're left whimpering as he stretches out your ass, prepping you for his own pleasure. Whoever the hell taught a hero to do this, you're going to have to hunt them down and torture them. Repeatedly. Mercilessly. Messily, until they died, screaming in agony.

The gag he has on you vanishes right in time for him to curl his powers up and hit your prostate in just the right way to make you scream, and you do, hard in his hand as he jerks you off in time with his thrusts. At some point he'd gotten more inside of you and you're so fucking dizzied that you can't tell if he's switched to using his fingers or kept using his powers, up until he shoves three of those clean fingers into your mouth.

"You _do_ enjoy looking put together, don't you, Stormcode?" You whimper, his fingers stretching out your mouth enough that you can't help the saliva coating them, the trail of it running down your jaw. "Personally, I think you look absolutely splendid when you're a little wrecked! I'm sure Koriannon and all the rest would agree."

Wrecked as you are, that tacit threat is enough to make you thrash in his arms until he shifts his body to pin yours down. The chains shift again, and by the time he backs off, they've tied themselves to different pieces of equipment, leaving you half-suspended, your ass stretched open and your mouth a mess. Behind you, you can feel the general shape of his movements, and when the chains jerk you up to waist height, it barely comes as a surprise.

The fact that he starts it again, a hand on you stroking, power down your throat and in your ass, makes you realize exactly how determined he is to destroy you. You fight it, for as long as you can, until you're _burning_ with the need to spill, desperate enough that you know he can fill it—

And you can't.

The questioning noise you make slips out past his improvised gag, and he laughs again, that darker sound, as he pulls power away from you. "You're not going to finish until you're begging for it, Stormcode!"

You could cheerfully go back against all of your plans and slaughter him right fucking now, but somehow, you don't. Somehow, you stay calm, as he spreads your thighs open even wider, the chains adjusting to fit him in, and shoves inside of you in a motion that makes you scream for him all over again.

"Please," you gasp out, and he digs his grip into your hips, intending to leave a bruise, and ignores you. Each thrust jerks your body harder, builds the pleasure higher, and you think you're liable to die soon, if he doesn't give in.

 

It's not the first time you've practiced self-denial. Hell, it's not even the first time you've let someone else do it to you. But this time, this time it's a fucking junior hero, a cocky upstart who'd gotten their hands on some intel that let him get in and get to you in exactly the ways that would work. You're humiliated beyond belief. You're embarrassed.

And you're so fucking turned on that you think you'd come right here if he'd _just fucking let you_.

 

Whimpers and pleas do nothing to sway him. Instead, he keeps up his ruthless pace, thrust after thrust, as you start to break.

 

* * *

 

Hours may have passed, or minutes—you can't tell any longer. All you know is that he's inside of you, working you open, and that you're completely at his mercy until he decides otherwise.

When Coriander notices that you're no longer fighting the restraints, that you're grinding back into his movements, all of them vanish, and you find yourself in his lap as he settles himself on the ground. It makes a damn good picture in the mirror, much as you're ashamed to admit it, and you make a questioning little noise as he strokes over your thighs.

"Now you're going to fuck yourself for me," he informs you, his tone gentle. "You're going to ride me until you can't move anymore, and then you're going to beg me to finish you off and finish inside of you."

At any other time, you'd protest this kind of treatment from a hero. Much as you _enjoy_ that sort of shit, you've got your fucking pride. Usually.

Now, though, you shift yourself up onto your knees and start to move, little gasps and moans spilling out of you as you lift yourself up, an inch at a time, and rock yourself back down. Each time, he hits up against something inside of you that makes you whimper, and it's only after a few minutes of this that you can feel him getting restless.

"More," he orders, surprisingly quiet compared to before, and you can't help but obey—you lift yourself almost all the way off of him, and bring yourself back down, a cry slipping past your formerly careful guard as he bottoms out inside of you. "Good, good boy."

It's the kind of pace you can only keep up for a few moments more, until you're sprawled back against his chest and panting, as he coos sympathetically at you. "Cor," you manage, and he shakes his head, one hand around your dick.

"What comes next, Stormcode?" You're still in denial about that, just a little, and you shake your head—until he lifts you up by the hips, all the way out, leaving you whining at the loss—and holding you there. "What comes next?"

"Gods," you mumble, your eyes half-closed, your vision too hazy to be of any use. "Please."

"Keep going."

"Please, please, _please_  fuck me, please, Cor, I can't fuckin' take any more a this, I need—I need to finish, I need _you_ , I need you to let me—to _help_  me, please—"

"What else?" His nails sink into your thighs, cutting deep enough to draw blood, and you cry out, again.

"Just, just fuckin'—take whatever you want, break me, finish in me, anythin', just let me _come_ —"

It's enough for him, finally, because he shoves you back down and slams into you, your face against the training floor as he rams into you, over and over and over.

When he finally spills in you, you can feel the hold he has on you fizzling out, and you finish with a desperate noise that barely sounds human, your vision going blindingly, holy, white.

 

* * *

 

 

You come to, dressed and cleaned, in the spare bed you'd set up for yourself. There's water on your bedside table, granola bars, and a cheerful little note with a smiley face on it.

Admittedly, you're still in something of a bad mood—being this sore has never done wonders for your personality—so you eat the food, drink the water, and set his note on fire with a tiny bolt of lightning.

Then you flop back down into bed and try _not_  to think about Jake English whispering to you that they were going to get you out of there, soon. Maybe heroes knew they always needed someone to save. Maybe villains knew the world needed them to keep turning on. Maybe Coriander—Jake—could tread the line somewhere between those, but you weren't going to count on it.

Not from a hero so green he hadn't realized that he'd given you _exactly_  what you wanted.


End file.
